Prologue, Part 1: Life At The Start
“The eye only sees what the mind is prepared to comprehend.”
Ambulance, Photo by Matt Gush from Getty Images
On a beautiful September Sunday morning in 2002, I did my usual Sunday morning routine. I had three little boys that I had to get dressed, fed and out the door on time to our Sunday church services. Because my husband, Edwin, was a full time youth pastor in the church he had grown up in, Sundays were especially hectic for us.
We had already had a full weekend, playing miniature golf with members of our extended families, celebrating our oldest son’s upcoming birthday. He would be turning 7 the next day, and, as always, I was looking forward to making his birthday as memorable as possible. My boys were my world in those days, and any chance to celebrate their special days were the highlight of mine.
I’m assuming that we did our usual Sunday meal after our morning service, followed by naps. We would have headed to church early, since Edwin and I were singing a duet in that evening’s service, and we always rehearsed again before the service.
I remember singing my duet with Edwin and returning to our seats in the third row, not knowing that that was the last normal moment we would have for the foreseeable future. As soon as we sat down, the upper right corner of my mouth, suddenly disappeared. No buzzing or tingling. Just gone. Not checking in.
Outwardly, I was still calm, but only for a few more moments. Only until the right upper corner of my lip began to slowly pull upward, coming to a stop in a snarl. I leaned forward and tapped my mom on the shoulder as discreetly as possible. She turned to look at me and immediately zeroed in on my curled lip. She was a highly trained nurse who had been in charge of a couple of different Intensive Care Units specializing in neurological care. Her eyebrows raised in concern, then she motioned for me to join her in the foyer.
Fortunately we were still able to exit discreetly from our seats near the front. In the foyer, my mom went into her familiar nurse mode. I could see the mental gears turning as she assessed me.
She finally said, “Wait here. I’ll go get our stuff and the boys and let Edwin and Dad know that we’re going to your house.”
No argument from me. I wanted whatever was happening next to happen in my house.
She reappeared a few moments later with our stuff and my three boys in tow. Arriving at our house moments later, I changed into sweats while she put in a video for the boys, hoping to distract them from whatever was going on with me.
I was no sooner settled on our couch when my right eyebrow “disappeared” just as my mouth had done earlier. Then they both slowly drew upward in unison as if pulled by an invisible string, stopping at their highest points. Seconds later, my head began to slowly turn to my left, also stopping at its farthest point.
Next, my right forearm developed the same absent feeling, followed immediately by my arm slowly turning inward and drawing up towards my face, my fist coming to rest near my chin.
No sooner had my arm stopped, a section of my right thigh disappeared, followed by my right foot slowly turned up and inward, coming to rest like every other part. My anxiety peaked as I waited in anticipation for the next body part to go rogue.
A few contortions earlier, my mom had seen quite enough. She was on the phone with a 9-1-1 operator, describing to the dispatcher what she was observing. The paramedics had been dispatched earlier and were already on their way.
Once they arrived on the scene, there were so many bodies packed into our tiny living room, I easily missed the arrival of my dad and Edwin. However, even with the blur of paramedics, busy assessing me, one thing did not escape my notice: My boys. To my relief, I saw that their focus stayed glued to the television set, with only the occasional glance back in my direction.
After what felt like an eternity, I was loaded onto the stretcher and wheeled out to the waiting ambulance, where a single paramedic finished hooking me up to all the necessary equipment. I strained to hear the discussion happening near the back of the open ambulance, as the other paramedics spoke in hushed tones, only a few key words carrying back into where I lay.
“...rule out stroke...31 year old female...trauma center....”
Those few words landed hard. Everything had moved so quickly up to that point that I had only been preoccupied with whatever was coming next. Now for the first time, unwelcome thoughts found room in my anxious mind. A quiet tear rolled down my cheek as I stared back at our tiny, white Cape Cod house, traced against the black sky by the flashing lights.
Is this what dying feels like?
Will I ever see my boys again? What about Edwin?
Everything that mattered to me was tucked behind those painted brick walls. I strained to remember the last thing I had said to each of them.
Did I tell them I loved them? Had I hugged them?
I couldn’t remember. I wondered if they could. I wondered if whatever I said or did would comfort them—or possibly haunt them—for the rest of their lives?
I was relieved when the paramedic spoke again. “Ok, Mrs. Hargis. I need you to stay calm. We’re going to go really fast to the nearest trauma center.”
I know it’s something that people like him say to people like me in situations like mine, but I’ve always figured that “stay calm” was one of the silliest things you could say to someone like me in moments like this. There might be sillier things, but none come to mind.
How could he know that “staying calm” was not something I did well? For calm, you would have wanted Edwin. He was always the level-headed one when things got wild. From the first moments I had known him, he was the calm one. It’s why I sometimes called him “Steady Eddy.” For as badly as I wanted him with me in that moment, I knew exactly where he was. Inside, being calm for our boys.
I think he was so calm was because he is intensely practical. The wilder the scene, the more practical he becomes. I pictured him calling someone to come stay with the boys, making sure they were fed and getting them to bed. Thankfully, his mind worked like that.
Someone’s should.
Meanwhile, the ambulance doors had closed, and we were racing to the nearest trauma center, sirens wailing. I was relieved when the paramedic riding with me distracted me with small talk about Edwin and the kids, giving me the calm he’d requested. Before long, I was wheeled into a trauma room where an astonishing amount of people were standing by, ready to get to work on me.
Once again, I was mercifully distracted from my own anxious thoughts by a fresh blur of people around me. In fact, I was so distracted that I barely noticed that my symptoms had quietly subsided, leaving as mysteriously as they had appeared.
(To be continued....)
